


It's a Wonderful Christmas Carol

by FancyFree2813



Category: A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens, It's a Wonderful Life (1946), due South
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Multiple Crossovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27733432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyFree2813/pseuds/FancyFree2813
Summary: This is my version of what might have happened directly after Fraser was beaten in 'Good for the Soul', if Charles Dickens and Frank Capra had gotten a hold of the script. It is also my Christmas present to all Due South fans.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 3





	It's a Wonderful Christmas Carol

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rather heavy story...with a little humor and a happy ending. It is based on the 1843 Charles Dickens' short story 'A Christmas Carol' and the 1946 Frank Capra movie 'It's a Wonderful Life'. By way of explanation, for anyone who might not know, Jacob Marley was the ghost of Ebenezer Scrooge's partner who warned Ebenezer of the impending visitations of three spirits, the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Yet to Come. Alastair Sim was a talented British actor who portrayed Scrooge in the 1951 film version of 'A Christmas Carol'. His portrayal is thought by most critics to be the best screen version of Scrooge. There are a great number of references to Due South seasons one and two, including, but not limited to 'Chinatown', 'Hawk and a Handsaw' 'Gift of the Wheelman' 'The Deal' 'Juliet is Bleeding', and season three and four 'Good for the Soul', 'Dead Men Don't Throw Rice' and possibly small references to several others. I apologize if I have missed any. I have thrown the DS timeline out the window, so some things I refer to might not happen in the 'correct' sequence. Also by way of a disclaimer, for anyone who might be familiar with my Turnbull stories, the Turnbull in this story is NOT the same Turnbull from the 'Layers or Goofy Mountie' Series.

**Prologue**

Pain. Excruciating pain. Nothing existed in the universe save pain, physical and . . . emotional pain. He couldn't move for the pain. He couldn't cry out for the pain. He couldn't save himself from the pain. He had failed . . . he was wrong . . . he had failed and it was somehow appropriate that now he would die. There was nothing he could do except surrender to the oblivion of unconsciousness, as snow fell softly around him . . . 

**The Call**

The call came in directly to Ray Kowalski’s desk. "Get your trash the hell out of the alley!" And then the caller hung up. No further explanation, no location, no nothing. But Ray knew, down to the soles of his shoes he knew that it was Fraser. Fraser was in trouble. 

As Ray made for the squad room door on a dead run Detective Huey called out behind him, "Ray, what's up?"

"It's Fraser! Send an ambulance to Warfield’s club!" Ray called out as he ran out the door. As he rounded the corner to the parking lot he almost collided with Inspector Thatcher on her way in. He didn't even break his stride as he grabbed her arm and pulled her along with him.

"Detective, what do you think you're doing?" She was both shocked and indignant as she reluctantly trotted along beside him.

"It's Fraser!" The tone of his words immediately shut her up, and she matched his stride to the car.

They exchanged no further words until they were well on their way to club. "Tell me what's happened to Fraser!" she asked in a voice was soft, but insistent.

Ray shouted his reply above screeching tires, as they slid through yet another left turn. "Not sure. Got an anonymous call. Said ta get the trash outta the alley."

Thatcher hung on for dear life but was suddenly hopeful. "Maybe it doesn't have anything to do with Fraser. Maybe it's something entirely different." But like Ray, she could feel it in her bones. Something was very wrong with Fraser. He needed them.

**The Alley**

At first glance the alley appeared to be empty. Piled high with trash and garbage, it revealed no sign of Fraser. At first glance. It took a second and then third, harder look before they both spotted the lifeless form. There, tossed like so much discarded refuse, among the trash, filth and dirty melting snow, lay Fraser. He lay on his side, with his back to them, his only recognizable feature the yellow strapping down the leg of his dark blue uniform trousers.

Ray dropped to his knees in the muddy gutter that ran the length of the alley to gently turn his friend over. Even in the darkness Ray could see the damage to Fraser's face. Ray instinctively felt his carotid artery for a pulse. He exhaled deeply and silently thanked God. "He's alive."

Thatcher fell to her knees next to Ray and bent over Fraser. In the dim light it was hard to tell where all the blood was coming from. That is until she gently put her hand on the side of his head. It was wet and sticky, and when she pulled it back her hand it was covered in red. "Dear God, Ray, the whole side of his head is . . . We've got to do something to stop the bleeding!"

The words were barely out of her mouth when they heard the scream of an ambulance siren.

**The Borderland**

Fraser lay there watching them. It was very odd, he knew his eyes were closed and thought he was probably unconscious, but he could see the stricken faces of Ray and the Inspector. How very curious! He knew he should feel pain, but instead felt strangely disconnected, as if his mind were no longer part of his physical being. How very odd, he could see their lips moving, but only heard soft murmuring. He could not understand their words.

But then, he thought he heard his father. Almost indistinguishable, as if from very far away, "Benton, come here, Son." But that could not be. His father would know he was hurt and could not move. "Benton, follow my voice and come to me." His father's voice was louder now and more insistent. "Benton, get up! Follow my voice and come to me."

Even more curious than his lack of pain was his ability to rise up and walk toward his father's voice. He glanced back briefly, to see that he was still lying in the mud and muck in the trash filled alley, but yet he was also walking toward the blackness, away from the dim light of the street. Very odd, indeed.

The blackness moved in on him like a fog, but not soft and quiet. It was hard and cold, surrounding him until not even the dimmest light filtered through. He stopped moving when he could no longer see his way. He was surrounded by total darkness. Not the kind of darkness of Yukon nights, were moonlight, or even starlight cast enough illumination for one to find their way. This darkness was like nothing he had ever experienced. Total blackness, enough that he could no longer make out shapes or forms. It was impossible to maintain any sense of direction; he had completely lost his way. 

That's when he heard his father's voice again. "Benton, over here."

"I can't see anything. Where are you?"

"Just follow my voice and you will find a door."

Benton moved ever so slowly ahead until he sensed the presence of a door. He felt around until he found the latch and opened it. The light streaming through felt like knives piercing his eyes. He rapidly shielded them with his arm. 

"Good God, why didn't you warn me? I can't see a thing!"

"Sorry, Son. Stand still a minute, your eyes will adjust."

Benton might have been temporarily blinded, but his other senses kicked in to high gear. He heard the howling wind, felt the bitter cold as it ripped right through his coat and uniform and bit at his skin, and smelled . . . decay. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the light.

Actually, there was very little light. Everything he saw as his eyes began to focus was gray. The sky above them, the deep snow underfoot, the rocks jutting up throughout the sparse landscape, everything was shades of gray. There were no trees or discernable landmarks. Just bitter cold, howling wind and gray.

"Where are we, Dad? This place looks nothing like the borderland you took me to before . . . this place feels like . . . death. Am I dead?" Benton felt oddly at peace and realized that his father's answer really didn't make that much difference to him.

"No son, you are not dead, not yet. This place is different only because this time you may very well die. But more importantly, you want to." Robert Fraser frowned at his son and sighed heavily. "Although, for the life of me, I can't understand why." Sargent Fraser and his son trudged slowly through the thigh deep snow and sat on an outcropping of rock.

"Why? You said it yourself. I have been selfish and inflexible, the branch that cannot bend must break." Benton hung his head in defeat. "One man cannot beat the system, Dad. I have failed. Miserably, completely, totally . . . failed. Not just with Warfield, but with everything. I just can't seem to make a difference."

"Benton, I will not allow any son of mine to wallow in self-pity! You may have been single-minded and possibly even obsessive, but you have also been right. Done your best to preserve your integrity. You have done everything one man could possibly do to make a difference--"

"And failed." The cold of this place permeated his clothing, his skin, his very being. It settled, like the black fog, cold and hard around his heart. Benton slapped his arms against his body in a vain attempt to warm himself.

"Benton, you need to be reminded of who you are and what you have done. That's why I am arranging a little demonstration for you. You will be visited by three 'spirits' who, I hope, will be able to convince you of the impact your life has made."

"You mean like in 'A Christmas Carol'?

"No Son, I am not Jacob Marley, advising you of the impending visitation of the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present or Future, and you sure as hell couldn't come close to being as good an actor as Alastair Sim--"

"Thanks for the compliment, Dad! I always thought I was a fairly good--" 

"Sarcasm does not suit you, Son." Fraser Sr. would not be put off, "Just think of this . . . demonstration as being inside a Dickens story scripted by Frank Capra. Listen carefully to what they have to say, you can still learn a thing or two." Fraser Sr. walked away from his son, as the darkness quietly encircled him again.

**The Essence of Christmas Past**

Fraser felt the sensation of movement. He realized he was lying down, but he was moving. His disorientation eased slightly as he became aware of motion around and over him. He then heard the wail of a siren. Ah, he was in an ambulance. He must be the one being taken to a hospital, but he could only vaguely recall being hurt. Then he remembered. The beating, and the pain. He was slightly relieved, but more bewildered, by the fact that he didn't feel anything. 

Then he saw Ray. The old Ray, the first Ray, the real Ray. His Ray.

Ray had appeared out of the blackness and was standing behind another man who was apparently monitoring Fraser's vital signs. Ray was smiling and silently motioning to him. He wanted Fraser to come with him, to follow him out the back of the speeding ambulance and on to the snow slick street. Fraser was amazed to find that he was able to do just that.

"Ray, you're back! God, I've missed you! It's so good to see you." He hugged his friend and former partner tightly.

"We didn't know if you were alive, or where . . . " Fraser stopped in mid-sentence, horrified, as it suddenly occurred to him . . . "Ray, please . . . please tell me you're . . . you're . . . you're not . . . dead! You're not a ghost . . . "

Ray slapped Fraser on the arms as he smiled at him. It had been far too long. "It's good to see ya too, Benny. Nah, I'm not a ghost, but I'm not back either . . . not really. Actually, I think I'm sound asleep in a great big bed, in a great big house, in a southwestern desert somewhere I can't tell you.

"I must be, like sleep walking, or something. I was dreaming about your Dad. He told me you needed my help. Just think of this . . . " he thumped his chest, " . . . me as the essence of the real Ray Vecchio." His smile faded away. Ray put his arm around Fraser's shoulders as they walked down the center of the deserted boulevard, the ambulance siren fading in the distance. "Benny, why do you wanna give up?"

Fraser hung his head. His father had chosen wisely, Ray was probably the only person in the world he could say these things to. "I'm alone Ray . . . and lately I've realized just how lonely I am. All of my life it's been the same. The only thing I could hold on to was my duty and the sense that what I did made a difference. Lately I've come to believe that one man cannot really make a difference. That it was foolish of me to try . . . to try to fight the system."

"Yep, that's what your dad said." Ray sighed at the change in his friend. "Well buddy, I'm here to tell you, you got a real short memory. Let's take a look at some stuff."

They continued down the street for a short distance and then turned left, directly into Chinatown. Fraser was once again confused, as he was sure that this street led in an entirely different direction. "Ray, where are--?"

"A more appropriate question would be 'when are' we? Do you remember Henry and Jimmy Lee?"

"Of course, Ray. I may have a head injury but my memory is still intact!"

"That's open to debate, cause if you did remember them you'd also remember how you, with reluctant help from me, helped restore Henry's belief in justice. Not necessarily the law, at least not the FBI's version of it, but definitely justice. Henry would have cashed it all in, given up to Charlie Wong, if it hadn't been for you."

"Yes, but he and his son were almost killed--"

"Ah, but in the end he did stand up for what he believed in. You helped give him the courage to do that." 

Ray could see that Fraser wasn't convinced. As they walked past the brightly colored store fronts of Chinatown, smelling the exotic aromas, listening to some familiar and some foreign sounds, Ray watched Fraser out of the corner of his eye. They paused in front of the Lee family's restaurant packed with customers enjoying a well-cooked Chinese meal. Ray could tell that Benny was obviously remembering more than just Henry Lee.

They walked on to the corner, turned and left Chicago's version of the Far East. They were now standing in front of an apartment building at 221 West Racine Ave. "Ray, this building burned down." Seeing his former home took Fraser's breath away. He hadn't realized how much he had missed . . . having a home. "It burned shortly after--"

"Remember, this is the past." Ray saw the sadness in his eyes and placed his hand on Fraser's shoulder. "I'm sorry you lost your home, man, but this is about another time. Same place, another time - it's about John Taylor."

"Ah, yes. The man who bought the building, only to have it torn down. All the tenants would have been left homeless." Fraser sighed at the memory, but then remembered the fire. "They all did end up homeless, in the end."

"That's not the point, Fraser! _The point_ is that you stood up for them, when no one else would, not even them! You showed a whole apartment building, disgusting as it was, full of people that one man could fight the system . . . and win! People who live in places like this rarely have much to be hopeful about. You gave those people a little hope, however short lived it might have been."

"Short lived being the operative phrase." 

Ray was very discouraged by Fraser's attitude. It was so unlike him to be this disheartened. Ray wished, not for the first time in the last year, that he had never left Chicago, never left his friend behind.

He frowned as he thought that he only had one more chance to get through to Fraser. He'd better make it good. 

"Then, of course, there's me . . . "

"I don't follow, Ray."

"Me and Frankie Zuko . . . and Irene. You think I coulda got through that without you standing by me?"

"Ray, you didn't want me to defend Zuko. You told me, if I remember correctly, that I needed to know when to 'work the rule'. And when we did stand up to him we could have both been killed . . . and Louis Gardino was killed."

Ray sighed deeply. "Benny, are you deliberately missing the point here?"

Fraser hung his head and sighed. "I'm sorry, Ray, I do see the point you are trying to make and believe me, I appreciate it. My father was right, I do need to be reminded of these things. I guess I'm just tired. Tired of trying, tired of doing what I see as my duty, just to have it ignored or thrown back in my face."

"You know, a lot of the things we do have an effect on people and we never even know about it. One man's life's kinda like throwing a pebble in a pond. It makes ripples that have a far reaching effect on others who never even saw the pebble."

Fraser was astounded. "That was very profound, Ray."

"Yeah, well, every once in a while, a writer will give _me_ the good lines!"

"Well, just so long as it's only once in a while. I am the major character, after all."

Ray just smiled his 'Fraser, you make me crazy, but I still love ya' smile. "I gotta go now, Benny. Think about what you've seen, and - well - just be here when I come back for real." Ray hated to leave him, again, but he apparently had no choice, he seemed to be . . . fading. "See ya, Benny." And then Ray was gone, swallowed by the blackness that had once again enveloped Fraser.

**The Essence of Christmas Present**

Fraser could tell from the sounds and smells that he must now be in the hospital. Though he thought his eyes were open, he couldn't see a thing. He hated very few things in life as much as the feeling of being disoriented, but here it was again. Not being able to see or feel anything caused him as much emotional discomfort as the earlier pain had caused him physical discomfort. He would have traded the two in an instant.

He heard the incessant beeping of what he assumed to be a heart monitor, and the murmur of people around him. He still could not discern their words but was aware of the urgency in their tone. He must be very badly off. It was just so terribly odd . . . he could not feel any part of his body.

He lay there in the darkness, for what seemed to him to be forever, until he saw Francesca emerge from the blackness. She smiled as she drew near to him.

"Hello, Benton," she spoke softly to him as she took his hand and pulled him up to stand by her.

"Francesca, I don't understand. Where . . . why . . .?"

"I'm asleep in the hospital waiting room, Benton. I was dreaming of you and your father came to me. He said you need my help. I would do anything in the world for you Benton, your father knows that." She moved up very close to him. "I hope you know it too." Her eyes pleaded with him to finally understand the depth of her feelings.

"Yes, I do." He knew all too well the depth of her feelings. He was mildly embarrassed but somewhat surprised that he didn't feel the need to pull his hand away from her.

"Your father said I should show you how your life has affected us all," she giggled nervously. "I sure hope I get this right . . ." She giggled again and hung her head. "Sorry. I'm just so excited that I might be able to help you, for a change--"

"Francesca, you often help me with--"

"Not with anything really important, Benton. And never anything as important as this!" She surprised herself with the passion in her voice. "Well, let's get going, I've got a lot to show you. Ray told me about a lot of your cases. I thought I'd show you where some of the people you helped are now."

They walked hand in hand down the corridors of the hospital, through the sliding front doors and directly into a Christmas party. A college fraternity Christmas party, if Fraser was any judge. He frowned at the noise and general chaos of the place. After the quiet of the hospital, this was certainly a loud, colorful, crowded counterpoint.

"Fraser, do you remember Del Porter?" Francesca shouted at him over the music, if you could call it that, as she directed him to a quieter room in the house.

"Of course. His father robbed a bank, intending to double cross his accomplices." Fraser continued, more to himself, than to Francesca, "his father was a writer and Del gave him a very expensive pen as a Christmas gift." Fraser was again confused. "We sent his father to jail. What possible good could I have done for Del?" Fraser glanced around the room Francesca had led him to. It was more dimly lighted, quieter, and there were a few young couples scattered around the room. He could see that they were . . . engaged in . . . ahem . . . taking advantage of . . . the quiet and . . . dim light . . . The more than slightly embarrassed Fraser cleared his throat. "Ah . . . Francesca, will we find Del here?"

Francesca was studying a young couple who were . . . enjoying each other's company . . . and needed Fraser to nudge her slightly to bring her back to the task at hand. "Oh . . . yeah . . . Fraser. I was just wishing . . . well . . . " She took a deep breath and hurried on. "You saved his father's life, Fraser. His father may not have been that great a writer, but he was Del's inspiration, and Del is a fabulous writer." Francesca smiled as Fraser's eyes lit up just slightly. "Look, over there."

Sitting in a far corner was Del Porter. Older than when Fraser had last seen him, and greatly matured, Del was typing furiously on a notebook computer, while a young woman of the same approximate age babbled on about something or other.

"Sheri, please let me get this chapter finished, then you'll have my complete attention, I promise." Del smiled broadly at her. "Two more chapters and the book will be done! My publisher says that this one should make enough to finish paying for school." By the time he graduated his dad would be out, and they could be a family again.

"I'm sorry Del, but," she cast her eyes around the room, "I'm not in the mood to watch you . . . work, if you get my drift." She pouted a little, but then smiled at him. "If I shut up now, will you let me be the first to read it?"

Fraser was genuinely pleased. He remembered a conversation with Del in which he had told him that he thought writing down one's innermost thoughts where any stranger could read them was the bravest thing a man could do. He was proud of Del; he had accomplished a great deal, under extremely adverse circumstances.

Francesca could tell by the tiny smile on Fraser's face that this scene was having the desired impact. She was as pleased as Fraser, but for an entirely different reason. 

Francesca was feeling as if she were being pulled away from this place. She would have loved to stay at the party. Sure, it was loud and crowded, but the music was lively, there were lots of interesting people, and it looked as if they were all enjoying themselves immensely. One look at Fraser however, told her he would prefer to be somewhere else – anywhere else. And so she could no longer ignore the compulsion to move on to the next demonstration.

They walked through the front door of the fraternity house and were suddenly back in Chicago, in a church that Fraser immediately recognized as St Michael's. Neither one of them spoke as Francesca directed him down the steps to the Church's basement soup kitchen.

She retreated a few feet behind him, as Fraser studied the scene before him. William Sparks stood behind a table spread with food, serving Christmas dinner to all manner of homeless, transient men, women and children. He smiled gently at the women, spoke kind words of encouragement to the men, and gave extra servings of pie and milk to the children.

"All the people who come through here love his gentle kindness. All that would have been wasted if you hadn't taken the time to help him find his way out of that psychiatric hospital. Plus, he makes one heck of a Santa Claus for the children." 

Fraser was shocked at the familiar voice behind him. "Father Behan . . . you . . . you . . . can see . . . me?"

The Father smiled broadly at Fraser as he cast his eyes toward Heaven. "He works in mysterious ways, my son. William might still be languishing in that institution, or worse, if you hadn't cared enough to help him out. You have had a wonderful, meaningful life, Constable Fraser. God bless you." With that Father Behan walked on.

Francesca allowed Fraser to study the scene for a few minutes, before gently interrupting his reverie. "Hey, Frase? You ready to move on?"

He turned back to watch as long as he could, amazed at William now that he had emerged from his drug-enhanced psychosis. It was obvious to Fraser that William now knew the difference between a hawk and a handsaw . . . every day. Francesca led the reluctant Fraser up the basement stairs, and directly into the hospital waiting room. 

Fraser was stunned, and once more bewildered, by what he saw there. He didn't count them but estimated that there must be at least ten people he knew sleeping, sitting, or milling around the room. Ray, or to be precise, Ray Kowalski was there, Inspector Thatcher, Constable Turnbull, Lieutenant Welsh, Detectives Huey and Dewey and others he knew from the 27th Precinct. Curled up on a sofa in the corner was the sleeping form of Francesca.

"Francesca, I don't understand. Isn't this Christmas Eve? All of these people have plans to be with their families. You, for instance, are supposed to be helping your mother cook dinner for 15 people. Ray was supposed to go to Skokie to have dinner with his parents, the Inspector has a flight to Toronto to be with her father, Lieutenant Welsh was complaining earlier about having to visit his brother, Turnbull was supposed to have left to go to Walla Walla, Washington . . . "

" _Walla Walla?_ What's a _Walla Walla_?"

"An onion," he muttered. "It's also a story that does not bear repeating. Why is everyone here?"

Francesca smiled and put her hand on his arm. "You really don't know?"

Fraser was genuinely perplexed. "No, I don't."

"There is no one, or no place, that is more important to all of these people right now, than you. You are well loved by all of your friends, Benton." She looked up at him and smiled. "ALL of your friends." 

It took Fraser a moment to realize the full import of her words, but when he did, he blushed. He then cleared his throat and ran a finger between his collar and his neck, but he was deeply moved by her words. "Thank you, Francesca."

"What happens to you . . . well . . . it's very important to me . . . to all of us, Benton." She placed her hand on his arm again as she whispered to him, "we all care about you very much."

She sighed. "I have to go now." She stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. "Be well, Benton." Francesca sighed again as she thought that this was certainly different from all the other dreams she’d had of Benton, the ones that ended in hot, passionate . . . Well, darn . . .

**The Essence of Christmas Yet to Come**

Fraser was becoming slightly less apprehensive as the darkness once again surrounded him. He was more curious at what, or who, would appear in that blackness. So when Francesca left him standing alone in the hall outside the ER waiting room, and the blackness descended, slowly enveloping him, he anxiously awaited his next 'essence' visitation.

Whatever he was expecting, he was certainly not prepared for who showed up.

"Hello, Sir," the young Mountie smiled as he appeared in the blackness.

"Turnbull?" Fraser gaped at him. "What in heaven's name are you wearing?"

Turnbull was obviously _very_ proud of his costume. "It's a Santa Claus suit, Sir."

"I can see that, Turnbull. I was referring to what you're wearing on your head."

Sitting perched on the very tall Mountie's head was a cowboy hat. An average, every day, 10 gallon type cowboy hat - decorated with flashing Christmas lights, mistletoe, and silver tinsel. The tinsel hanging around the hat brim gave Turnbull the appearance of wearing an aluminum hula skirt on his head. "Ah, do you like my hat? It's my own design." Turnbull did a little pirouette to demonstrate the 'flow and sway' of the tinsel. 

Fraser thought he might choke. "It's very, uh, very . . . well . . . very unique." He cleared his throat. "So, you are asleep in the waiting room, dreaming, too?"

Turnbull looked pensive for several moments, before he leaned over to whisper to Fraser. "You know Sir, I'm not totally sure. Sometimes it's very hard to tell, don't you think?"

Fraser thought it was often hard to tell many things about Turnbull. For the second time in the last five minutes he cleared his throat, in an attempt to change the direction of the conversation. "Are you here to show me the future?"

Turnbull smiled at Fraser and whispered conspiratorially, "oh yes, indeedy do. I have lots of very interesting future . . . ah . . . stuff to show you. What the world to come would be like if you were to die tonight. Which, of course, you are NOT going to do!?" Turnbull pleaded with him.

When Fraser did not respond, Turnbull led him through the ER doors directly into the darkened, almost empty 27th Precinct Squad Room. Almost empty, that is, except for Ray. Sitting at his desk, almost as if he had never left, was Ray Vecchio. Fraser was intensely relieved to see that Ray had made it back from his undercover assignment in one piece. It felt so very good to see him sitting at his desk, almost like old times. The times he missed so much.

"It looks like Ray has done well without me. He seems happy enough." Fraser was at once saddened that Ray wasn't pining away from the loss of his best friend, and overjoyed that he was home, safe and sound. Then he noticed the lines around Ray's eyes. "How far into the future are we?" A closer look at Ray's appearance caused Fraser some concern.

"Oh, a great many years Sir. Lieutenant Vecchio has been back from his undercover assignment for several years."

Fraser's smiled deeply. "Ray has been promoted?"

"Oh, yes Sir! And awarded several commendations for valor for his undercover work. He returned home to a hero's welcome." Fraser's smile faded slightly as he realized that he had missed Ray's success. He was very proud of him, but Ray might very well never know it.

Fraser picked up a picture of a lovely woman and two children from the desk. "Is this his family?" Fraser and Turnbull watched as Ray answered his ringing phone.

"Hiya, honey." Ray brightened considerably. "Yeah, I'm on my way. Just making a last entry in my journal. Yeah, I've got them right here. I love you too." Ray was smiling broadly as he hung up the phone. As he closed his journal, he ran his hand lovingly over the cover, closed his eyes and sighed. He then locked it in his top drawer. As he prepared to leave the squad room he picked up several colorfully wrapped Christmas gifts

Fraser's gaze followed Ray as he left to spend Christmas Eve with his family. He then turned to study the picture he still held in his hand. "A wife and two children. They make a lovely family." Fraser spoke more to himself than to his companion. "I'm glad he's happy . . . and that he doesn't need our friendship to make his life complete--"

"Ah, Sir? I think there are some things that you need to read." Turnbull easily opened the locked desk drawer, pulled out Ray's journal and handed it to Fraser.

"Turnbull I can't read this, journals are very personal, private things. I could never--"

"Sir, all the entries are addressed to you. I do not believe you would be invading Ray's privacy in the least. He obviously wished you could have known these things." He pointed to the journal in Fraser's hand, inviting him to open it. "Look at the first entry . . . "

Fraser opened the book to the very first page, the very first entry, and began to slowly read aloud . . .

'March 15 - Benny, I swore to myself that I would never do this. Life's tough enough, without writing down everything that you try to forget. But there's so much I want to tell you today, and I know that there will be a lot of stuff in the future.

'I just got back. I feel like I've spent the better part of the last two years in Hell. They gave me all these commendations and a promotion, but all I really wanted was to see Ma, and then you. But they've told me you are gone. I'm Italian so I'm allowed to cry, right? It's hard for me to do this through the tears. I never got to say goodbye - twice. Never got the chance to say I'm sorry. Sorry for not being able to say goodbye the first time. There shouldn't have been any reason for me to need to say goodbye the second time, Benny.

'I should have been here. I could have helped you. You know I would have never let you stand out in front of the damn club alone.

'I need so much for you to be here. I don't know if I can get over the time I spent in that hell hole without you to talk to' . . . Fraser looked up from his reading, as if to ask Turnbull's permission to continue.

Turnbull gently took the journal from Fraser and turned to the next entry he wished him to see. "Here's another entry you need to read, Sir . . . "

'August 13 - Benny, Katy and I got married today. I know I've written you about her before, but I don't know if I've ever written it in so many words, I wouldn't have been able to make it through the 18 months I've been back in Chicago if it hadn't been for her.

'Mary Katherine Sullivan . . . Vecchio. An Irish Catholic and an Italian Catholic! You think we'll make it? You think she can put up with me? I love her, Benny. You'd love her too. You know what she said as we were leaving the church? She said she wished she could have known you. I don't know though, one look at that pretty Mountie face and she probably would have forgotten I was alive! Either that or she would have thought I was some kind of freak to have an irritating friend like you. (ha, ha)

'I wish you could have been my Best Man. You are the best friend I've ever had, next to Katy, that is!' . . . 

Turnbull directed Fraser to the next entry. "Turn toward the middle of the Journal, Sir, to August 8th. Ah, that's it . . ." 

Fraser began reading again, rather self-conscious at his somewhat shaky voice . . . 

'August 8 - Benny, Well, I'm a father again! Little Rose has a brother. Almost made it to our 5th anniversary too! He's a real screamer, like his old man, I guess. Like everything else in my life, I wish you could see him! 

'I miss you man, every day, I think about the difference you made in my life. Not always good (ha, ha), but definitely a difference! That's why, even though I've never thought it was a real first name, we named our son Benton Fraser Vecchio. I think you'd be proud, at least I hope you'd be proud. I hope he turns out to be at least half the man . . . '

Fraser could not go on, overcome by Ray's words. Turnbull carefully avoided looking at the tears in Fraser's eyes as he took the journal from him and turned to the last entry. "And this is what he wrote today--

'Benny, - Well it's another Christmas Eve, the anniversary of your death. It's gotten easier for me to write, and even to think about. All those years ago, and I still think about you every day. You'd probably laugh at me, but I make many decisions based on what I think you would have done! I'd never be able to say that to your face, you'd never let me forget it!

'I'm very happy Benny. Katy is the best thing that ever happened to me. And the kids, well, they're just great. Rose is home from school for the holidays. Letting her go all the way out to the West Coast was really hard on her old man! But Gonzaga University is a really great law school, and it is Catholic! If a talent for arguing makes for a good lawyer, then she will be the best female lawyer in the country!

'And Ben, well he’s…you'd be proud of your namesake. He hasn't decided where he's going to go to school, but I'm praying he stays close. I'll miss him an awful lot if he goes too far. All he knows is that he wants to be a cop, like his old man and the other Benton Fraser. Told him he's got to get an education first, then we'll talk!

'I've tried to raise them with a sense of honor and duty, Benny. I'm sure you'd be pleased with the way they've turned out. I am.

'Christmas is a time for reflection, I guess . . . I don't have any regrets about how my life has turned out, Benny, except for one. And I guess I don't need to tell you what that is . . . 

'Merry Christmas, Benny' 

Turnbull gently closed the journal and returned it to its place of honor in Ray's desk. "I think you've seen enough here, Sir. There's much more I need to show you." Turnbull took Fraser's arm and guided him back through the double doors of the 27th Precinct Squad Room.

Fraser was so overcome at what he had learned that he was not even aware that they had left the 27th, until he heard Inspector Thatcher's voice, loud and angry.

"But, Turnbull, wait . . . what about Ray Kowalski?"

"--and furthermore, these reports are totally unacceptable! Your previous incompetence is only exceeded by the current level of work that you have both--"

Fraser and Turnbull had left the 27th Squad Room to enter directly into the front hall of the Canadian Consulate. Standing in the doorway of Inspector Thatcher's office they could see the red serge clad backs of two men facing the Inspector's desk. They could not see the Inspector, but they could certainly hear her! She was shouting at the top of her lungs as the two men stood at attention in front of her.

Turnbull dipped his head slightly and sighed. "She never lets up on the other Constables. These two have only been here a few weeks, but both of them have already requested transfers. It's always the same, none of them stay more than a few months." Turnbull leaned toward Fraser and whispered, "She doesn't mean to do it, she's just very--"

At that moment, the two young Constables hurried out of her office, almost colliding with the unseen Fraser. "The guys in training were right, that woman's a real--"

"Constable Regan that will be quite enough!" Bustling up from the back of the Consulate came the 'real' Constable Turnbull, carrying a tray with a silver tea service. "You will _not_ speak of Inspector Thatcher in that tone!"

As Turnbull hurried on into Thatcher's office, Constable Regan turned to Constable Smithers and whispered, "And Turnbull is just . . . well . . . disturbed!"

Fraser turned to the 'essence' of Turnbull. "I don't understand. You said this was many years in the future, but 'you' don't look any different there than you do here, or then as you do now, or . . . " The flustered Fraser waved his hands for emphasis.

The 'essence' of Turnbull whispered to him. "That's what comes from being completely clueless, and slightly more than a little demented. One doesn't have a care in the world, and therefore never ages." Turnbull puffed up like a peacock, stuck out his chin, and assumed a stance reminiscent of Adonis. "That and, of course, our author cannot write me as anything other than young . . . virile . . . and . . . devastatingly handsome." 

Fraser frowned at the other man. "Turnbull?"

Still posing as Adonis, Turnbull tossed his head as he responded, "Sir?"

"Get real!" The 'essence' of Turnbull deflated so rapidly Fraser half expected him to fly around the room backward, with a phffftt. He immediately regretted his overly harsh words. "Sorry, Turnbull."

The dejected Turnbull pouted slightly as he turned to the tableau being played out in Inspector Thatcher's office. "I brought you some tea, Margaret. You need this to calm your nerves."

"I did it again, didn't I? I overreacted." She sighed deeply, obviously upset by her previous actions. "Renfield, will you try to smooth their ruffled feathers?"

Fraser was no less than astonished when the 'real' Turnbull perched on the edge of the Inspector's desk and placed his hand protectively on her shoulder. "You know I will Margaret. Don't I always?"

Thatcher patted his hand lovingly and sighed. "Thank you, you really are a great comfort to me."

Fraser could not resist moving closer to her desk. As he did, he saw the gray shot through her hair and the lines around her sad . . . hard . . . eyes. The hazel eyes he had loved so much.

"Turnbull, what's happened here? What's happened to Inspector Thatcher? Why is she still here, in Chicago? I would have thought she would have been promoted by now."

"After you . . . when you . . . died, something inside of her . . . died too. I think there were many things she regretted. She got . . . well . . . there is just no other word for it . . . she got mean. She pushed everyone away. Everyone, that is, except for me. After a while she got to the point that no one wanted her around, and certainly no one wanted to promote her. She just got . . . old . . . old and . . . alone."

"And you . . . he . . . stayed with her? You . . . those two seem very . . . close. Are you . . . they . . . uh . . . " Fraser tried desperately to get his point across with body language, he just couldn't say the word.

"Sir?" Turnbull was almost always dense, but this time he knew exactly what Fraser was getting at. He just wanted him to suffer a little, after his 'get real' comment. "Oh, you mean are we, are they . . . uh . . . intimate?" This was becoming very confusing. "She . . . sought . . . uh . . . comfort in my . . . HIS . . . arms a few times, but now we . . . THEY . . . are just very dear friends. She needs someone to confide in, to ease some of the loneliness . . . and that seems to be me . . . HIM."

Fraser was having a great deal of trouble watching the scene before him. He felt as if there was a great deal of unfinished business here, feelings that needed to be expressed, things that needed to be put right. And the thought of Inspector . . . Meg . . . his Meg . . . needing to be . . . intimate . . . with . . . good God . . . intimate with Turnbull . . . was more than he could endure.

He abruptly turned to his current 'essence'. He felt an uncontrollable desire to get out of this place, to go somewhere else. Anywhere else. Ray missed him, but had gotten on with his life, Inspector Thatcher, on the other hand--

"Turnbull, where's Ray Kowalski?"

Turnbull led Fraser through the front door of the Consulate into a small diner, crowded with last minute Christmas shoppers seeking refuge from the cold with a hot cup of coffee. Fraser scanned the room in hopes of catching a glimpse of Ray. He was slightly disappointed when, after a thorough look, he saw no one he recognized. "Turnbull, is Detective Kowalski here somewhere?"

"No, Sir, I didn't bring you here to see Detective Kowalski." Turnbull guided Fraser through the maze of people and bundles they were carrying, to a relatively quiet corner of the café. Sitting there, alone, was a woman who looked very familiar to Fraser. But yet, he was almost positive he had never met her. She was just an average person, rather pretty in a drab sort of way, with short, graying light brown hair and soft brown eyes. He was strangely drawn to this familiar woman. Fraser studied her for several moments until a waiter approached the woman and she smiled. 

"Oh, my!" This woman had the most beautiful smile! It came crashing through the iron mantle of cold that Fraser had worn ever since the Borderland and wrapped him in a soft blanket of warmth. He whispered to his companion, "Turnbull, who is this? I don't think I've ever met her, yet she seems so familiar. And she has . . . well . . . her smile . . . "

Turnbull smiled in return. "Let's just call her Mary Smith. You haven't met her, Sir." Turnbull giggled softly, this was fun! "Not yet." 

"Why is it necessary for me to see her? Did I have some impact in her life?" Fraser was drawn to her smile like a moth to a flame, he could not resist staring at her.

Turnbull would have laughed out loud, but for the seriousness of his mission. "Once again, Sir, not yet. But you would have." Turnbull smiled broadly as he whispered in Fraser's ear. "Several years ago she might very well have become _Mrs. Benton Fraser_."

"WHAT?" Turnbull was tickled by Fraser's reaction. He had never seen the man let his emotions get the better of him this way!

He just couldn't resist, "We need to go on now, to see Ms. Vecchio, that is Mrs. Rosetti. She's--"

"Turnbull, WAIT! When . . . how . . . "

The younger Constable felt vaguely guilty at leading Fraser on. "I'm sorry, Sir, I can't tell you any more, because I really don't know. She is obviously someone you would have met in the future. Now she is alone. It could have been a wonderful life, don't you think?" Turnbull tugged soundly on Fraser's sleeve. "We really need to move on, Sir."

Fraser wouldn't budge as he gaped at Mary Smith, forcing Turnbull to grab his arm and pull him through the crowded diner. As Fraser stumbled along behind him, he continued to stare back at Mary. They were almost through the front door before Fraser finally lost sight of her.

"I'm sorry for dragging you out of here, but I don't have much time left. Are you all right, Sir?"

Fraser fought desperately to bring his mind back to what Turnbull was saying. He glanced back, in one last, vain attempt to see Mary. 

He stood there for another minute or so, before his mind cleared. "Constable . . . where . . . where is Detective Kowalski?"

"I don't think that's--"

"Turnbull please, I need to see Ray."

Turnbull was obviously reluctant. "Sir, I don't think you really want--"

"Turnbull, I want to see Ray!" Fraser's request had turned into a demand.

"You're sure?" When Fraser just nodded, Turnbull directed him through the front door of the diner. 

For the first time Fraser and Turnbull were outside. The sun was shining, but it was bitterly cold, the wind whipping through his clothes and biting at his skin, just as it had in the Borderland. The warmth of Mary Smith's smile did not protect him here. He did not recognize this place, but the air was heavy with portent and foreboding. He could sense that something was very wrong.

Turnbull watched Fraser silently. "Turnbull, where are we?" He noticed with some apprehension that the flashing lights on Turnbull's hat had gone dark and the tinsel was dropping like falling leaves.

Turnbull's reply to Fraser's question was hardly more than a whisper. "We are in a cemetery in Skokie, Sir." He swallowed hard. "Detective Kowalski's grave is right there." He pointed to a marker that lay in the snow covered grass, as he removed the hat that had suddenly become totally inappropriate. He let Fraser walk to the grave alone.

Fraser stared at the marker for several minutes. It was so hard for him to comprehend that Ray was gone. From the date on the stone it appeared that he had died just a few months after . . . after . . . The snow made a hollow crunching sound as he knelt beside the grave and tenderly touched the cold stone, tracing the name chiseled there with his fingers. 

'Stanley Raymond Kowalski - Beloved Son'

And beloved partner . . . and friend, Fraser thought. Without looking up he spoke quietly to Turnbull. "What happened, Renfield? Why . . . how did Ray die?"

Suddenly this wasn't fun anymore. Turnbull wished he could have spared Fraser this. He had desperately hoped that seeing Vecchio, Inspector Thatcher and Mary Smith would have been enough to prove to Fraser how important his life was, and how interesting his future could be. He could hear the sorrow in Fraser's voice, and see the look of desperation on his face. 

"Constable . . . Benton . . . are you sure you want to hear this? It doesn't have to be this way, you know? These are the things that will happen only if you die tonight. I don't--"

Fraser stood and came eye to eye with Turnbull. "Constable, please! Tell me how Ray died!"

Turnbull sighed but did not break eye contact with Fraser. "Detective Kowalski . . . blamed himself for your . . . for your death. He told me that . . . that he should have been there with you. Should have . . . believed in your cause, supported you . . . because you were his partner . . . and . . . and his friend. He could not forgive himself . . . for not being there to stand up with you."

Turnbull saw the color drain from Fraser's face. Dear God, how he hated to hurt him this way! Sargent Fraser had not warned him about this. 

"Lieutenant Welsh made him take some time off after . . . after you . . . died . . . but even that didn't help. Detective Kowalski returned to work even more depressed. He refused to be assigned with another partner, and after he acted, well . . . rather recklessly on several assignments, no one wanted him as a partner. I'm sorry, Sir . . . but one day during a shootout he just, well . . . he just . . . just . . . stepped in front of a bullet." Turnbull was sickened by the look on Fraser's face. "I'm sorry, Sir. I didn't mean to hurt you."

But Fraser didn't hear him. "I wasn't there to protect him."

"Just like he wasn't there to protect you." Well, it was now or never. "He needed you, Sir. All the things that you've seen, that Ray and Ms. Vecchio and I have shown you, are true.

"You may not have given us a reason to live, but you, or perhaps more accurately your actions certainly did give us all hope. Hope that the world could be a better place, and that we could all do something to make it a better place. You showed us a little light in a too often dim world. You didn't fail us Benton . . . we all failed you. Most of us have come to believe that one man _can_ make a difference, we just had trouble admitting it, to ourselves, and to you. All the people out in that waiting room would sure like to be given a second chance . . . to tell you so."

"More profound utterances from our esteemed author?"

"You don't honestly believe that I could have come up with that on my own, do you Sir?"

Fraser turned back to Ray's grave and stared at it for a very long time. When he had made his decision he turned back to the . . . whatever it was . . . 'essence' of Turnbull. "Thank you, Renfield. I think I'm ready to go back now." He smiled slightly at Turnbull. "I hope that hat is only a bad dream."

"I think that it is the 'essence' of anchovy pizza, Sir." Turnbull gave Fraser a decidedly 'goofy' grin and disappeared, as the now familiar darkness surrounded Fraser again.

**One Last Trip to the Borderland**

He stood there for several minutes, lost in a darkened world of his own thoughts. He thought of his dad, Vecchio and Kowalski, and all the friends he had had throughout his life. Not so long ago he had believed he had let them all down. Now he was convinced that that was not true. "Thanks, Dad," he whispered into the blackness.

"It was nothing, Son."

Fraser nearly jumped out of his skin. "God, I wish you wouldn't do that! You nearly scared the life out of me!"

"Ah, so you admit there's still some life left in you! Glad to hear it."

Robert Fraser's son sighed deeply. "It's because of you, you know. I would have given up if you hadn't intervened."

"You just needed to be reminded of some things. You did the work, Son. I don't know if I've ever said this to you . . . and if I have . . . well, I damn well haven't said it enough. I'm proud of you, Benton." Fraser Sr. was almost overcome with embarrassment, as he felt that speaking of such things was extremely unmanly.

"I was a miserable Father, Benton. But I tried to teach you the things I thought were important . . . duty . . . responsibility . . . honor. Unfortunately, I never taught you much about friendship or . . . or . . . love . . . " Fraser Sr.'s voice trailed off as his mind wandered back to what he now considered his failures with his son.

"You did your best--"

"Well . . . even without my training, you've done pretty well in the friendship department. Failed miserably at love though."

"Dad!"

"Well, you have! There are a couple of women out there in that waiting room who might jump at the chance to give you some instruction. One who might need just a little more convincing than the other but . . . You just have to pick one--"

"Dad! I hardly think that now is--" 

"Benton, I've learned a thing or two about life since I've been dead. One is that time waits for no man. You've not getting any younger, and neither am I--"

"You're not getting any older, either!"

Fraser Sr. did not at all appreciate being reminded of his current 'state'. "My point exactly! I've reached a time in my life . . . or death . . . or whatever this is, where I need to know that my son has listened to my advice!"

"Did you go to all the trouble of convincing me that I had a life worth living, just to make me regret it?" Sometimes his father could be so . . . exasperating!

"I taught you better than this, Benton! What about respect for your elders?"

Benton just shook his head. "This from a man who just admitted he failed as a father! Respect indeed!"

"Just get back to the business of living, Son. The rest will follow." Fraser Sr. smiled slightly at his son. "It's still not going to be easy, those wise men beat you pretty badly. But your friends will be there for you, just as you have always been there for them." Fraser Sr. walked off into the blackness. "Merry Christmas, Benton."

Fraser smiled as his father disappeared. "Thanks, Dad. Merry Christmas to you, too." As much as he sometimes found him to be exasperating, Fraser knew his father cared for him. Just now he realized how much. Just now he also realized how much he had to live for. He would be forever grateful to his father, and to his friends, for reminding him.

In the distance he could hear a clock striking midnight. His smile deepened as he realized it was now Christmas day.

The Happy Ending

Dr. Corbett stood unnoticed at the entrance to the waiting room marveling at the number of people he saw waiting there. It amazed him that all of these people would care enough about one man, a foreigner - if you considered Canadians to be foreigners, which he personally did not - that they could care enough to spend their Christmas Eve - correction - Christmas day waiting for word on his condition. What could one man have possibly done to engender such loyalty and devotion in so many people? He must be one helluva man! 

One of the more pleasant jobs of being an ER doctor was being able to tell friends and loved ones that the object of their concern was going to be okay. He cleared his throat in an effort to gain someone's attention. Everyone was instantly on his or her feet. 

Lieutenant Welsh was the first to find his voice, "Doctor? How is he?"

"It was touch and go for a while . . . a long while." Dr. Corbett sighed as he recalled their fight to keep the injured man alive. There had been times when it had been nothing less that miraculous. "But it appears your friend has decided to stay with us." He smiled as he saw a room full of relieved faces smiling back at him and wondered about the strange look that passed between the petite brunette and the tall guy in the Mountie suit.

"He will have a long road to recovery, but the fact that he is conscious gives us every reason to believe that he will recover fully. He will need your help," the doctor looked around at the faces of the Mountie's friends, "but, with friends like you, that doesn't look like it will be too much of a problem. Take good care of him people, I can tell just how important he is to all of you." 

As he turned to leave them it occurred to him . . . "Oh, and Merry Christmas everyone." 

The End


End file.
